


Fools and Kings

by yourlocalai



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Introspection, Merlin Centric, Minor Violence, Post-Magic Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalai/pseuds/yourlocalai
Summary: The idea of being Court Sorcerer had dangled before Merlin like an unreachable dream for years. He never imagined Arthur would actually offer it to him.He never imagined he would say no.





	Fools and Kings

Magic was legalized in Camelot on a Tuesday. By Thursday, Merlin was already packing his bags.

“You’re sure I can’t change your mind?”

Arthur was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Merlin flit about, shoving the handful of clothes he owned into a sack. There was no heat to the question, for which Merlin was grateful. They’d done all the shouting he could handle two days ago.

“You know you can’t.”

“Then at least tell me why,” Arthur said, and Merlin threw the sack down in frustration, turning to face Arthur for the first time since he’d shown up that morning, ruining Merlin’s plans for a quiet getaway.

“I already did. The people—”

“Who cares about the people—”

“ _You_  do!” Merlin burst out, and at some point they’d drawn together, standing chest to chest as they glowered at each other. It was like they were in Arthur’s chambers all over again, a newly issued proclamation stamped with the royal seal discarded on the floor between them. “Or at least you should. Come off it Arthur, if this had happened a year ago in another kingdom, what would your first thought be?”

Arthur didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. They both knew Merlin was right. The King’s manservant is revealed to be a sorcerer, a few months later magic is legalized in the kingdom, and the next day said manservant is sitting on the council as Court Sorcerer. It reeked of corruption, and the people both inside and out of the castle were already starting to whisper of it. They thought Arthur ensorcelled, and they’d come after Merlin sooner or later.

It would be better for everyone if he disappeared for a while.

Eventually, after a tense moment of silence, Arthur sighed and stepped back, opening up a path to the doorway.

“You’ll be back.” He didn’t say it as a question, but Merlin could see it hovering behind his eyes, mixed with just the barest hint of fear shining through.

Merlin put a hand on his shoulder. “Course I’m coming back.”

Arthur drew him into a hug, and one of these days Merlin was going to have to teach him how to do it properly. It was brief and stiff and awkward, little more than a harsh pat on the back, but it was Arthur who’d initiated it. That meant something.

When they broke apart, Merlin held out the stone he’d been saving for this exact moment, his thumb tracing the runes painstakingly carved on its surface, feeling their power. Arthur took it.

“A rock,” he deadpanned, “how generous.”

Merlin shoved him, and a smile flickered across Arthur’s lips at having gotten the reaction he wanted.

“It’s a talisman, you ass. I won’t be here to save your hide, so just…promise me you’ll keep it with you.”

Arthur slipped it in his pocket. “I promise.”

That was everything he’d wanted to say, so he snatched up his pack and started walking before he could talk himself out of leaving. It was a strange feeling, crossing the threshold that had been home for so many years, knowing it could be years before he returned. Arthur trailed after him.

They paused again at the main door to Gaius’s chambers by unspoken agreement. Arthur would follow him no farther than this. He’d said all his other goodbyes the day before. Gaius had cried, which was awful. Gwen had cried too, which was worse. Gwaine had gone so far as to pack his own things, determined to follow him before Merlin had been able to talk him down.

This was a journey he’d start alone, but for all that this was his idea, he didn’t want to leave.

“Well, this is it,” he said, hands swinging uselessly at his sides as he searched for a way to end this gracefully while still stretching their time together out for a few seconds more.

Arthur put him out of his misery. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Of course. You too.”

With one last nod, Merlin forced himself to turn and walk out the door, traveling through the castle corridors with his head held high. Even with the delay Arthur had caused him, it was still early enough that he passed few other people, either in the castle or as he made his way through town. With a little bit of effort, he could almost convince himself this was any number of early morning herb gathering trips, that he’d be back before noon.

The gates to the city opened when he passed, the broad fields bordered by forest stretching out before him. With one confident step, followed by another, and another, he set out on the road leading to the rest of his life.

* * *

 

With nowhere else to go, he headed for Ealdor. 

He saw his mother before she saw him, loitering at the edge of the village as he watched her in the fields. Her hair was almost all silver now, and her shoulders were more stooped than they had been several years back. She was growing old, and after so many years apart it took him by surprise.

A sudden tightness in his throat arose at that thought, his eyes burning with tears. He hadn’t made the time for her he should have, hadn’t been able to risk saying much of anything in his letters, but he could make up for that now. He had all the time in the world. 

The last time he’d walked through these fields he’d been a boy, barefoot and ragged with nothing but a wooden stake to help him sow the seeds. Now, with his leather boots and his fur trimmed cloak brushing against the grain, he felt like an intruder. Looked like one too, if the stares he was getting were any indication.

His mother’s back was turned when he reached her. He cleared his throat softly, unable to smother his smile.

“Need any help?”

She let out a yelp, dropping her basket as she whirled to face him, and his laugh at the look on her face was wetter than he would have liked to admit.

“Merlin?” she asked, voice trembling as she reached a hand out to touch his cheek. She seemed so much smaller than she was in his memory, her voice so much softer.

“Yeah, it’s me, mum.”

Her arms were around his neck in an instant, her weight dragging him down until he could wrap his own arms around her waist.

“What are you doing here?” she asked into his ear, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Her voice was torn between joy and fear, likely at what could have driven him out of Camelot.

“I’m fine mum, I just…” and then suddenly he was crying in earnest, because he’d done it, hadn’t he? Magic was returning to Camelot, and at twenty-six years old he’d completed the task everyone had said he was born for. Now he had a life to live, a future to build.

He’d never planned for an after.

He pressed his face tight against his mother’s shoulder, her own arms tightening around him in worry.

“I have so much to tell you.”

She pulled back then, grasping his hands and pulling him towards their house. Despite his best efforts, his tears only increased when he saw it, so familiar and yet so strange at the same time. It was a tiny shack of a thing, much smaller than any of the houses in the lower town. It felt like he barely fit through the doorway.

Once inside, she bustled him over to the bed they’d shared all his childhood. There was a blanket he didn’t recognize on top, of a finer quality than anything made in Ealdor, and a new cauldron hanging above the fire pit in the house’s center. The little bit of money he’d been able to send her had done her some good, at least.

Her hand stayed clasped tight in his as she sat next to him. “What’s happened?”

It took him a few moments to calm his breathing enough to speak clearly. She waited patiently until he had.

“Magic is legal in Camelot.”

That clearly wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. He laughed, both at the expression on her face and with the giddy disbelief still coursing through him.

“I know, right?” It was impossible, unbelievable, the stuff of a dream half remembered. He was never sure it could be done. He was always sure he wouldn’t live to see it.

A few more tears spilled down his cheeks, thankfully without the gasping sobs this time, and his mother reached out to wipe them away before he could do the same, her touch gentle.

“Isn’t this a good thing?” 

He nodded, because of course it was a good thing. It would take time, but the pall of fear that had shadowed Camelot for decades would be lifted. This was the start of a true, lasting peace, of a united Albion under the care of the greatest man Merlin knew.

It was the stuff of legends, and Merlin was now a known part of that legend, for better or for worse. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

He should probably start at the beginning.

“When I went to Camelot, I met a dragon.”

Merlin didn’t have words to express how much he loved her at that moment. She stayed quiet as he spoke, spinning a story of magic and adventure and friendship to the best of his ability. She didn’t interrupt with questions when he backtracked over misremembered or forgotten details, and she didn’t tense when he spoke of the danger he’d willingly placed himself in.

She soaked up every word he gave, and he spoke until he felt empty and wrung out, his heartache laid bare.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she sighed, and he didn’t know if he hoped for reassurance or answers from her, but neither was forthcoming. 

They sat in silence after that, hand in hand and lost in thought, until the fire burned down and the world went dark.

* * *

 

Several weeks later saw him back in the fields that had raised him, pulling weeds out from between the crops. With his fine clothes stored safely away and his skin reddened and muddied from the work, he looked more like the peasant he was starting to think of himself as again.

It was funny, when he stopped to think about it. He’d left Ealdor without a scrap of worldliness in him, yet still so convinced of his own uniqueness. His importance. Now he knew exactly what he was, and the world of the rich and powerful had never looked less appealing.

He’d thought it would be difficult, coming back, or at least strange, but instead it only felt familiar. He grew used to the pervasive smoke indoors that stung his eyes and tickled his throat, and to living in a house without windows or floors. His feet grew tough again, learned not to mind the mud squelching between his toes or the dirt caked under his nails. His body relearned the rhythms of village life, waking with the sun and spending his days on the things that would see him through the winter, rather than whatever tasks suited a nobleman’s fancy.

There were mornings where he woke and Camelot felt like nothing more than a distant dream.

Not everything was the same. He was taller now, and broader than any of the other men from years of eating and sleeping well. There were new faces, children and women who’d married into the community, folks who didn’t remember him as the little boy that brought bad luck. And it was always jarring, expecting to see Will just behind him only to realize he was alone.

But worst of all were the times he’d catch sight of his mother, staring at him as if she didn’t recognize him at all.

This tension between them came to a head just as the year’s first snow was starting to fall. He was outside, axe in hand as he chopped logs into firewood. His palms burned where he grasped the rough wood.

He hadn’t even realized she was outside until she spoke.

“You never use your magic anymore.”

He placed another log, felt the strain in his shoulders as he swung. “Why would I? This isn’t hard.”

“That never mattered to you before.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, setting another log down. Place, swing, split. The repetition was almost hypnotic. “I’ve learned a lot since then.”

He was ashamed now, looking back on how reckless he’d been as a teenager, all of his mother’s warnings falling on deaf ears. He’d been foolish, arrogant enough to believe himself invincible. Even if he had been, it wouldn’t excuse the danger he’d placed his mother in every time he’d left the loom weaving on its own, every time he’d made lights dance in the air just because he thought they were pretty. He should never have underestimated what someone might do to her if they couldn’t get to him.

“Will you show me?” she asked. Concentration finally broken, he embedded his axe in the stump and turned to face her.

“Why does it matter? Do you want to get run out of town when I get caught?”

“I want you to be happy.”

That wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. With the argument he’d been bracing for pulled out from underneath him, he could only stand there and gape. She pressed her advantage.

“I know you’ve been through so much that I don’t understand, but magic used to make you so happy. You would show off for me, do you remember?”

Slowly, he nodded. His ongoing quest to make his mother smile was one of his strongest memories.

“I don’t want to pressure you if you truly don’t want to, but I thought…” she trailed off, and never in his life could he remember her sounding so uncertain. She was soft spoken and gentle, and there were times he wanted to scream in frustration at the weight she would give to everyone else’s opinions and beliefs, but she was never uncertain.

It was like talking to a stranger, and he wished desperately to know again this woman who’d raised him, like the days when he’d been young and she’d been his entire world.

“Alright. I’ll show you something.”

* * *

 

As a child, winter had been his favorite season. As the temperature dropped and the village shut its doors against the cold, he was left free to wander without fear of prying eyes. The cold never bothered him in the way it did the other children, their frail limbs trembling with it through the long nights, and he would spend hours watching the snow pile up atop his feet, moulding it into the grandest shapes he could imagine. It was in those days he really pushed his own limits, magic pouring off of him without his having any preconceived notions of what was and wasn’t possible.

His mother was right. It had been fun.

His first winter back in Ealdor was in many ways a time of rediscovery, of recapturing that sense of joy he’d lost. 

It wasn’t easy, in the beginning. He started small, tidying up around the house in the evenings while constantly looking over his shoulder, ears strained for the sound of footsteps approaching their door. After so many years of using his magic only in life or death situations, using it for something as mundane as cleaning felt wasteful, unnecessarily reckless. But this timid display only seemed to make his mother sadder, so he pushed himself harder. He challenged his concentration, managing to hold seven spells simultaneously for half the day before he collapsed. As he laid in bed that night, muscles aching and a headache pounding in his temples, he felt the first real sense of accomplishment he’d felt in months, maybe even years, and resolved to see how far he could stretch that limit.

With only a few weeks practice, he could hold them all for the entire day with barely a thought.

On a stormy afternoon that saw them both cooped up inside, listening to his mother tell stories of the grand cities across the sea neither of them had ever seen, he learned to scry. He took her on tours of every city she’d ever heard of from the comfort of their bed, and they wiled the weeks away watching the massive river flowing on either side of Paris, or the bustling ports at Lisbon and Caesarea. They saw the Romans as a living people going about their ordinary lives, rather than the half mythical people who’d built the abandoned garrisons still scattered around Albion. She narrated everything they saw, and he wondered at the wasted scholar he saw in her words, wondered where she’d learned the things she knew.

He practiced changing weights and shapes, turning the mice chewing at their mattress into feathers, buttons, and string, or whatever other odds and ends might be useful around the house. He extended the inside of their house while leaving the outside unchanged, giving them an extra four feet of space with no one else in the village any the wiser. He could dissolve objects into smoke with a wave of his hand and reassemble them anywhere he wished, and he practiced his fine control by carving leaves and petals into the legs of their table, so lifelike a master wood carver couldn’t have done better.

Each new accomplishment brought a rush of giddiness with it, until his cheeks started to ache with how often he was smiling. He felt rejuvenated, and there were times he almost packed up and returned to Camelot, so desperate was he for Gaius’s books. The shadow that had fallen over both himself and his mother had finally lifted, and their tiny home felt light and airy again.

It lasted until the winter solstice.

That was the day he’d discovered that he could take drawings of food scratched into the dirt and make them real, as filling and delicious as if they’d harvested them the day before. His mother was staring at the small pile of vegetables before them with tears in her eyes, the handful of turnips, carrots, and cabbage making up a treasure trove more valuable than any amount of gold.

They would never have to endure a hungry winter ever again.

It should have made him happy, knowing that a poor harvest would never endanger his mother's life again, but all he could think about were the other people in the village, the children and elderly they lost every season to hunger and cold. He could help them in so many ways, and they would sooner run him out of town than accept it.

The blame was Uther's, he  _knew_  that, but he found himself angry with Arthur instead. Angry for the nights Arthur had spent justifying his hatred of magic to himself, and angry for every time he'd bowed to his father's commands. Angry for every hurtful, dismissive comment thrown his way, and angry for everything he'd had to sacrifice to keep Arthur safe.

He was angry because despite it all, he still loved Arthur far more than he could ever hate him.

Perhaps it wasn't Arthur he was angry with, but himself for the person he'd become while serving him. All those wasted lives, all that wasted  _time,_ all the opportunities he'd had to help someone and had stepped aside instead. As he'd told Gaius all those years ago, he'd found his purpose in Arthur, had wrapped up his entire sense of self in him. He'd lied, cheated, and murdered his way through the kingdom, all in service to someone else's destiny.

He didn't know who he was without Arthur. All he knew was that he didn't want to be that man anymore.

* * *

 

Tufts of grass sprouted from underneath the melting snow, the birds returning to the nearby trees heralding the start of spring. He’d spent well over half a year in Ealdor by that point, and couldn’t help but turn his thoughts to the future.

He could get married. That was what people did, right? They grew up, took a spouse, had a few kids, took over their parents’ household and kept it up until the day their own children inherited it. He tried to imagine it, the extension he would build onto the house, his mother and hypothetical wife chatting as they cooked, a little girl with his eyes and a little boy with his hair running through the fields.

Will had wanted kids, he knew.

All it did for him was bring into focus just how few women he knew. Some of his imaginary wives looked like Gwen. Most looked like Freya.

Regardless of who he thought of, there was a distance between him and that future. Ealdor had grown comfortable around him, but it was comfortable in the way a well placed rest stop was comfortable. He didn’t yet know when he would leave, but he knew this was not his final destination.

“You should come to Camelot,” he told his mother one night over supper. She scoffed.

“I’m a farmer, Merlin. What use would I be in the city?”

“There’s always things to do. And we would see each other more than once a decade.”

The look she gave him then was soft, knowing.

“I don’t think you’re going back just yet, are you?”

As with most things, she was right.

* * *

 

Merlin left Ealdor as soon as the last of the snow had disappeared, his mother standing teary eyed by his shoulder.

“Don’t stay away so long this time.”

It was strange to think that he should have two difficult goodbyes, almost exactly a year apart.

Food was plentiful in the forest, and that combined with his newfound talents let him wander comfortably, with little regard to where he was going or when he would get there. He spent weeks at a time in solitude.

All that space to think helped him come to some difficult conclusions. At some point, hearing  _magic is evil_  over and over again had turned seamlessly in his mind to  _I’m evil._ The thought was a poison, sinking deep in the cracks in his skin and taking root there, until it pulsed through his body in time with his heartbeat.  _I’m evil, I’m evil, I’m evil,_ a persistent background noise he hadn’t even noticed.

Arthur was good, and Merlin was evil, and serving him had been his penance.

But here, far from Arthur and any of his concerns, he could see the thought for what it was: an excuse. If he was evil, and he had certainly done evil things, then he did not have to worry about the morality of his actions. He was already irredeemable, and doing these things in service to a greater good was the best he could hope for. His difficulty with healing magic had only seemed like further proof. 

But Arthur had done his share of evil things as well, and it didn't diminish him in Merlin's eyes. He learned from them, carried their weight as he strove for a better version of himself, and a better future for his people. If Merlin was going to be a part of that future, he owed it to them both to attempt the same. 

Somewhere in the wilderness, sitting on a stump under the late spring sun, he vowed to dedicate himself to the healing arts that had always seemed just out of reach.

He got his first opportunity only a few days later, when a sharp scream cut through the forest before cutting off abruptly with a thud. He'd barely processed what he'd heard before he was running towards the sound. 

He burst into a clearing a few moments later, the body of a young girl lying at the base of a tree, a woman above her pleading for her to wake. The woman's head snapped up when Merlin approached, torn between hope and wariness at the sight of a stranger. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace. 

"Please," she said, tears coursing down her face, "can you help her?"

He nodded before he'd thought that through, only to immediately begin panicking. He knew spells that were supposed to heal puncture wounds, draw poison out, and soothe aches in the joints. Even if he'd ever been able to cast one of them successfully, he didn't know anything that could help with this. 

He couldn't do  _nothing._

Abandoning the idea of spells entirely, he reached for that core of magic that lived inside of him and cast it over the girl, the woman scrambling backwards a bit when his eyes glowed gold. No time to worry about her.

With his magic surrounding her, he felt her chest expanding with her breath, felt the blood coursing underneath her skin, felt the pounding of her heart growing fainter and fainter. It was disorienting, feeling like he'd been split between two separate bodies.

It also meant he could feel the exact spot in her mind that had gone dark and wrong. He pushed his magic that way, willing that spot to spark back to life as he did, and to everyone's surprise, his own not least of all, it worked. The girl coughed, her eyelids fluttering as she fought her way back towards consciousness. The woman let out a cry of delight. 

He braced himself for the moment where she chased him off, snatching the girl away from his grasp like he was some sort of beast, but instead she only rested her fingertips lightly on top of his hand. 

"Thank you," she said softly, but no less heartfelt for it. 

Bundling the girl in her arms, she disappeared between the trees. 

* * *

 

Similar stories repeated themselves over the months. It was a revelation, discovering that something about his magic was different from the spells Gaius had taught him. Casting spells felt like pulling and giving shape to magic from his surroundings, surroundings that were reluctant to let it go. His own magic came from somewhere inside himself, and it greeted him like an old friend every time he called on it. It was instinctual, and he'd spent the entire winter strengthening his connection to it. 

He liked to think he'd learned something from the fiasco healing Gwen's father had turned into, so he always made his presence known in the towns he tried to help. With his hood firmly up, he would travel between markets and taverns peddling prophecies and enchanted trinkets, or whatever else he could think of to draw attention to himself. Dragoon made frequent appearances.

Mostly it was fun, making as big a nuisance of himself as possible before dancing away from whatever guards had been sent to restrain him, but it also meant that any towns that reacted poorly to signs of magic among them thought first of him, rather than turning on each other. He was always long gone before things became too dangerous anyway.

He pulled water into dry wells, banished diseases from crops, and encouraged good health in the villagers he came across. It wasn't long before rumors started to spread about him. What they called him depended on how closely they held to the Old Religion, but most spoke of him as some sort of guardian spirit, sent to bless Camelot's countryside. When his visits started being met not with sneers and suspicion but rather curiosity and hope, he started making his trips at night. 

He'd spent a decade being the Druid's prophesized savior, only to consistently let them down. He didn't need to repeat the cycle. 

Still, things were good, and he was starting to think he'd found his place in this kingdom Arthur would build, as a bulwark for its people. 

* * *

 

One night, as he was making his way towards the field where he'd heard tell of a sick cow, he came across a bandit crouched low in the bushes, though bandit might not have been the right word. Mercenary was probably more accurate. He was big, well fed and well supplied with sturdy leathers underneath a shirt of mail, a well crafted short sword in his right hand. It wasn't unusual for a mercenary to prey on a village when they weren't currently being paid, but this was the first Merlin had come across in his travels. He cleared his throat. 

"If you're here to steal, I wouldn't recommend it."

The bandit started, clearly not having heard him approach, but didn't seem terribly concerned at having been found. All he did when he caught sight of Merlin was snort. 

"I'm not here to kill anyone, boy, so I'll do you a favor and tell you to run along," he said, turning back towards the house he was watching. 

"Do you need food? I can get you some."

The man stood. "Thought I told you to piss off," he said, advancing on Merlin with his sword raised. "Seriously, before I change my mind about using this."

Merlin let his magic flow through him, not enough to actually do anything, but enough to make his eyes glow gold. That was usually enough to make a person second guess attacking him. This time, the man only laughed.

"You one of them magic freaks? What's your party trick then, tossing a few pinecones at me? Oh, I know," he said, wiggling his fingers beside his head, "can you make my hair change colour?"

"I don't want to fight, but I'm telling you to leave these people alone."

The man stepped fully into Merlin's space, snatching a fistful of his shirt as he dragged him close. Whatever he was going to say was lost to the deafening  _crack_  in the air as his neck snapped. He didn't even twitch, just crumpled to the ground at Merlin's feet, dead. 

Merlin stumbled backwards, staring at the body that had been so hale and strong only moments ago, before turning tail and fleeing back the way he'd come, his magic still humming beneath his skin. 

He forgot about the cow. 

There were times when Merlin liked to think of his magic as a living thing, with himself just a humble follower of its fickle moods, but he knew that was an exaggeration. It responded to Merlin's own emotions, sometimes before he was even aware he was feeling them, but ultimately it was nothing more than an extension of Merlin himself. 

The order to kill had come entirely from him. 

He stopped his running only to be sick in the bushes, leaning heavily against a tree. The acid scraped at his throat, drawing tears from his eyes as it went.

 _I'm not here to kill anyone,_  the man had said, plain as day. He could have been there for anything: food, collecting a debt, stargazing. He could have lived there, for all Merlin knew. But he'd felt threatened, and his first instinct had been to eliminate that threat. 

It was terrifying, just how easy it was to kill. He'd done it dozens of times, without ever reacting this badly to it. Maybe being able to tell himself it was necessary helped. 

Maybe murder was the kind of skill you had to keep up on.

Either way, this never should have happened. He'd focused so much on honing his power he'd neglected his control, his magic reacting to every sensation like a neglected flower blooming in the sun. 

Some time later, when he'd wiped his mouth and dried his tears, he retreated farther in the woods with his magic more tightly leashed than it had been in nearly two years.

He didn't return to a village for some time.

* * *

 

He spent his second winter away from Camelot in a self imposed exile, sheltering from the weather in a spacious cave he'd found.

Like father like son, apparently.  

His mantra was back,  _I'm evil_  swirling through his thoughts like snowflakes, as caustic and icy as the real thing. Between that and the suffocating darkness of winter, paranoia started to set in, until every snapped twig or gust of wind became the rush of men sent to hunt him down. He wasn't sure who he was more afraid for; himself, or them.

What if the next time he lost control, he was with a loved one? Shoving Arthur leading to a snapped spine against the wall, frustration with Gwen's stuttering leading to her voice draining away entirely, irritation at a drunk and boisterous Gwaine sending him into a sleep that never ended. Vision after vision of all the harm he could do came to him until they stalked his nightmares and haunted his waking hours, sitting hunched against the pain in his heart. He knew he was dangerous, had cultivated it in himself until he was dangerous for all the right people, but what if unlocking his full potential left him unfit to be around anyone at all?

He wanted to disappear, and he wanted to run back to everyone and everything that was familiar to him. He wanted his magic to vanish, and he wanted to sink so far into it that its warm glow was the only thing that mattered.

He wanted Arthur to banish him so far into the wilderness he could never hurt anyone ever again, but more than anything, he wanted Arthur to look him in the eye and call him a friend. 

* * *

 

Eventually, hunger drove him from his cave. Unwilling to summon any food and running low on the meager stores he'd brought with him, he thought only to enter a village long enough to beg food for a bit of work before quietly leaving again. Even with his self hatred weighing him down, he didn't really want to starve to death.

The fact that a Druid was the first person he ran into seemed like Destiny having a laugh at him.

Of course she recognized him immediately, her hands flying up towards her chest. "Emrys," she whispered, and one of these days he would have to ask what it was they saw in him that gave it away. He'd never felt less like himself. 

"Hello," he said, giving a little wave. "I don't suppose you have any food."

She did, and she was all too willing to share it with the great and mighty Emrys. He kept his distance as she led him back towards her clan.

He'd decided following her was a mistake before they'd even reached the camp. Her eyes flickered towards him every few seconds, bursting with questions he thought were only held back because he pretended not to notice. The rest of the clan was no better. Whispers started up as soon as he stepped foot in their camp, leaving his skin crawling and his shoulders hunched up by his ears. He felt like an exotic animal being paraded through the streets. 

"You can rest here, my Lord," his guide said, pointing to a log draped in furs. It didn't look particularly special, and he was grateful. She disappeared as he sat, left alone in a field of strangers and hoping to keep it that way. 

"Emrys."

He flinched, but looked up to see a much older woman standing before him, the heavy necklace around her neck marking her as the clan's elder. He swallowed, ducking his head in what would have been a bow had he been standing, but didn't feel steady enough to speak. 

"We are honored to have you with us..." she kept speaking, but his hearing was drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears.  _Honored._  

He stood abruptly, the woman taking a step back in shock as he cut her off. "I'm sorry," he said, "this was a mistake. I—I shouldn't have come."

He turned to leave, make his way somewhere, anywhere other than here, but the elder's hand landed on his arm, holding fast.

"Emrys—"

"No!"

A wave of magic burst out of him, as if rejoicing in its newfound freedom. The log was blasted ten feet away into the forest, charms rattled in the breeze left in its wake, one of the tents collapsed. He almost preferred the whispering to the stunned silence that was left in its wake.

In horror, he turned to where the elder had been standing and saw a shimmering barrier thrown between them, shielding her from his power. He breathed out in relief. Just like that, he could have killed her. 

"I'm so—" he broke off, fighting down the urge to sob. He didn't have the right to cry now, but any energy he'd had to flee seemed to have drained out of him. He was stuck, waiting for whatever judgement she deemed fit.

Her hand landed on his arm again. "You are unwell, Emrys."

"Please," he said, his voice faint and foreign, "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Perhaps I can help," she said gently, wrapping an arm around his shoulder like a mother guiding a child. Exhausted, he followed.

* * *

 

What was meant to be a quick stop turned into nearly a year with the Druids, under the tutelage of their elder. 

"Your magic is very different from mine," she'd said in the beginning. "I am not certain how useful my teachings will be." Still, he listened patiently through all her lessons. 

As the weeks rolled on, he discovered that no amount of instinct could replace a proper education. She was right in that they did not use magic in the same way, but it was only through her teachings that his magic began to feel like a fully integrated part of his self, rather than the unbroken stallion he'd been attempting to wrangle before. Powerful, but never fully under his control. 

At his request, she taught him all of the healing magic she knew. Eventually, she even let him assist her in tending to the other members of the clan. It was almost like working with Gaius again, and as he became a common sight among the other Druids their whispers and stares started to die down. The clan grew around him, until he started to feel like he'd always been a part of it, comfortable and safe. 

That was probably a sign for him to leave. 

"You have a gift for learning, Emrys," the elder said one day as they sat on the bank of a stream, communicating with the sprites living there. They'd flocked to him as soon as he sat down. "I am not sure I have anything left to teach you."

"Thank you," he said, smiling half in gratitude and half at the pinpricks of warmth where the sprites walked along his legs. "Truly, I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You are welcome to stay, of course, but I can't help but wonder when you will return to your king."

 _His king._ Perhaps unwittingly, the phrase drew to mind images of a puppet on a string. 

"I'm not so sure he needs me now."

He'd done his part, guided Arthur down a path that would see magic returning to the kingdom. The rest was out of his hands, where it should stay. 

"And what about you?" she asked, her casual tone belying the enormity of the question. Did he  _need_  Arthur? No. The last three years he'd spent on his own had proved that, but still he missed him.

Every day, he missed him.

"I don't know. I don't know if I'm supposed to go back, or if I would just make everything worse."  

Even after all these years, nothing had changed from the day he'd collapsed in his mother's arms and poured his heart out. He still didn't know what to do. Would there be a place for him in Camelot if he did not offer himself up as Arthur's soldier? What use would he be if he could not kill for his king?

Would Arthur still want him there, after all this time apart?

"I am not a seer," the elder said, staring out over the water, "and prophecy has never been my gift. I would not presume to contest the will of Destiny, but perhaps the question is not what you must do, but rather what you wish to do."

Hmmm. What he wanted to do. He might have to think on that for a while.

* * *

 

About six months after he'd parted ways with the Druids, a crier came through the village he was staying at, bringing news of Camelot's first ever magical tourney, to take place later that summer. All were welcome to attend. 

Somehow, deep in his bones, he knew this was a message for him. Arthur was asking him to return after over three and a half years away, and assuring him of his welcome. 

In the wake of the elder's advice to him, it had taken him some time to decide what he wanted to do. He knew that he liked to learn, and he liked to travel, so he'd continued to do both, once again taking up his mantle as a healer as he searched for other practitioners of magic who had any knowledge they were willing to share. He'd found a hedge witch skilled in potion making, and a young woman skilled at talking to animals. Both had continued the education the Druid's had started for him, but the more secure he felt in his control over his power the more he started to feel like something was missing. The homesickness had finally caught up with him.

He left for Camelot before the crier had finished delivering his message. 

* * *

 

He returned to Camelot on a Monday, not quite four years after he left.

It hadn't changed much. The castle was the same, as were the sounds of chickens, squeaky cart wheels, and the voices of thousands of people going about their day, but it had changed. He saw Druids winding their way through the crowd, and charms hanging over windows and doorways. When he came across a man selling enchantments in the market, he nearly broke down in tears. 

The portcullis was open, and he made his way through the courtyard and into the castle without having much of a plan. He probably couldn't walk right in to the King's bedchamber these days. Should he ask for a formal audience? Maybe he should find someone else he knew, like Gaius or one of the knights, and go from there.

As it happened, the first familiar face he came across was the Queen's.  

She'd settled into her reign nicely, striding down the corridor in a resplendent gown with her head held high, her ladies in waiting trailing at her heel. They'd both changed so much.

What if she didn't recognize him? He didn't look like he had when he'd left. He was thinner, road stained and shaggy with his hair reaching nearly to his shoulders and an impressive beard on his face. A guard might strike him dead if they saw him accosting the Queen, or arrest him for daring to call out her name. 

She ended up seeing him first. 

She stopped dead in her tracks, her ladies in waiting nearly piling up behind her, and stared straight at him as if she'd seen a ghost. Timidly, he waved. 

And then she was running directly at him, throwing her arms around him in the first real hug he'd had in years. He melted into it. It felt fitting, somehow, that the first friend he'd made in Camelot should be the first person to welcome him back. 

She pulled away after only a few seconds, taking his face in her hands and turning it from side to side, inspecting him. 

"I am so furious with you," she choked out, tears already sliding down her cheeks. "Four years and you didn't write  _once._  We didn't know—we thought—" she broke off again, pulling him back into a hug. He sniffled into her shoulder.

"Three and a half years."

She huffed, pulling back again and dragging him over to the other women. "Agnes, go find my husband. Tell him to meet us in my chambers, and tell him its an emergency! Don't let him make any excuses." 

Agnes curtsied and hurried off.

"Come with me," she said, addressing him now. "I want you to tell me everything."

She'd moved into the Queen's chambers, just down the hall from Arthur's. Traveling towards them gave him a strong sense of deja vu. 

When she pushed open the doors, it was his turn to freeze. There, by the bed, a small cradle had been set underneath the window.

"Oh."

Gwen followed his line of sight and smiled. 

"She's four months old, now."

"A girl?" he asked, not even able to identify the feeling rising in his chest. It felt vaguely like he wanted to cry again.

"Her name is Eloise. Do you want to hold her?"

Speechless, he nodded, the feeling only intensifying when her tiny body was placed in his arms. Superficially, she looked like Gwen. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. It was hard to place more specific features when she was so small, hard to know who she'd take after more as she grew.

She was perfect. 

"Gwen, you have a  _baby,_ " he breathed. For a moment he wondered if he were caught in a dream. 

Whatever Gwen was going to say in response was cut off when Arthur burst through the door, wild eyed and panting. Eloise started to cry.

"What is it, what's wrong? Is she-" he stopped, catching sight of Merlin. Merlin was only half aware of Gwen taking Eloise away.

Arthur had settled into his reign as well. He'd filled out some, a comfortable weight coming from times of peace and plenty. The crown looked secure on his head, and he was sporting his own beard now. Merlin's chest ached at the sight of him.

"I came back."

A slow smile started to spread across Arthur's face. "You look like shit. I hate your beard."

Merlin let out a sound that was half laugh, half protest. "I hate  _your_ beard. At least I was homeless, what's your excuse?"

Arthur moved forward then, the door closing behind him. He stopped a few feet away, his hand half raised before it fell back to his side, as if he wanted to touch but didn't dare to. "Is this - you're back?"  _Are you staying?_

Merlin nodded, but held up a hand before Arthur's smile could grow too wide. "On one condition."

"Name it."

"I won't be your Court Sorcerer. I'll be an advisor, I'll build your castles and roads, grow your crops, be a physician, whatever else you want, but please, don't ask me to be your soldier. I can't—" he broke off. There weren't words to express his fear at what that might do to him. 

Arthur seemed relieved, as if he'd expected the condition to be much worse. "Done," he said, and then finally drew Merlin into a hug.

Someone had taught him how to do it properly since he'd been gone, and he felt warm and sturdy and safe with Arthur's arms around him, with Gwen's hand on his back.

"Welcome home."

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feelings about Merlin going off on his own for a while, y'all have no idea. 
> 
> To the best of my knowledge, there is no other fic where Arthur has a daughter named Eloise, but if there is I apologize. I took the name from a list of Middle English names that I liked, and it wasn't my intention to copy anyone else's OCs. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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